


New Year's Peace

by tsthrace



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, Grounder Culture, M/M, New Years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 09:53:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17262089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsthrace/pseuds/tsthrace
Summary: A little New Year one-shot. Lexa invites Clarke and Skaikru to take part in one of her people's most sacred nights.





	New Year's Peace

Every year, starting in spring and through the summer, the healers quietly collect sage leaves and rose petals. When walking to the sick or traveling with the warriors, they fill their satchels with the plants along the way—an extra load, but light and worth the carrying. They dry them with their other herbs and roots, storing them away for this night.

This night, every village, every camp, every _kru_ comes alive with laughter and _sawajus_. The bonfires are as tall as the tents, their sparks reaching to the tops of the trees before they disappear. Wars stop for this night. Weapons are left at the battle lines, and _gona_ cross into their enemy’s camps to drink and joke and fuck. Cries of lust, of release, of joy, of vulnerability ring out from tents and the blackness of the woods.

One warrior returns to the fires, flushed, his metal battle mask hanging loosely from one hand. Then another returns, only slightly less flushed, to sit silently on a stump by the fire, the bones of his unbuttoned jacket clicking together. The two do not speak, but their quick looks across the fire betray them. Some are less subtle, returning to the fire sweaty, their clothes hanging like lichen off their limbs. Some return to the darkness just a few minutes after, sometimes with a different partner.

“Is that why you invited me tonight?” Clarke asks Lexa, nodding towards a woman pulling a man into a tent just out of the fire’s light. It has only been a few days since that kiss. Since that stung look in Lexa’s eyes that no battle paint could hide.

Lexa shakes her head slowly, not looking at Clarke. “This is a sacred night for my people.”

“Sacred?!” Clarke huffs as a man’s moan rolls through the crisp air.

“Would you rather they be stalking Arkadia?” Lexa looks Clarke in the eyes, but her voice is soft. “Would you rather they be hunting _Skaikru_?”

“We have peace.” Clarke’s eyes narrow with worry.

“Barely.” Lexa looks into the fire. She takes a deep breath. “It’s the one night where all of us together can imagine what else we could be. Did you see that man?” She glances towards the tent.

Clarke shrugs.

“He’s a messenger from _Azgeda_. I would call him a hostage if it weren’t for the Coalition. I’ve commanded my warriors to not spit on him.”

“But wasn’t that a _Trikru_ warrior with him?”

“Yes.” Lexa turns towards Clarke. “Exactly. Maybe she will look at him differently tomorrow.” Lexa looks around the camp. “Peace is happening all around us. At least for this moment. Maybe it will last. Maybe not. But tonight we are all free to try.”

Clarke sees a young man, another _Trikru_ warrior, glance at Miller who sits a few yards away. He is one of only a few _Skaikru_ who accepted the Commander’s invitation to join the Grounders on this sacred night. Miller looks up at the warrior, his eyes mixed with curiosity and fear. The warrior’s face softens into a playful smile in the flickering light, and he holds out his hand. Miller stands, though he doesn’t take the man’s hand. The warrior smiles again, and Clarke sees thin black lines tattooed in curving ribbons down his face. He is beautiful. Miller sees it, too, his breath catching. The warrior leans in and kisses Miller softly.

“Well, _Skai_ -boy?” he asks with a smirk and holds out his hand again. Miller smiles, looks at the warrior sideways, and takes his hand. They walk into the forest together.

“Your warrior seems to appreciate our tradition,” Lexa says, a rare smile slipping across her lips.

Clarke nods, looking into the fire. “But that’s not why you invited me?”

“That’s not the only tradition we have for this night. Tonight is a time for cleansing, for healing, for rebirth.”

“Or maybe literal birth,” Clarke jokes. “In nine months.”

“That doesn’t happen unless we need it to.” Lexa shakes her head and sighs. “And that’s not the point.” Lexa looks down at Clarke’s hand and closes her eyes softly for a moment. _Don’t_ , she tells herself. _You’re too strong for this._ “The point is, we can start over, Clarke.” She looks into Clarke’s eyes.

Clarke looks away quickly. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Lexa bites her bottom lip and nods. A dozen responses race through her head—all the things she wants Clarke to understand, all the ways she wants to come close, all that is at risk if she does. So she stays silent and opens her hands toward the fire, warming them.

A bell rings out in the darkness. Clarke feels the sound vibrate through her chest, feels it loosen something inside her. After a long moment, it rings out again, closer, and the leaves that still cling to nearby branches seem to shiver. It rings seven slow times, and as it does, the people make their way from the dark places into the light. What had been a dozen people talking around the giant fire becomes a hundred and then more. The _Azgeda_ messenger stands behind the _Trikru_ woman with his arms wrapped around her. A shirtless Miller appears breathless beside the beautiful young man who is running a finger softly along his forearm, down and then back up. Miller lowers his eyes and leans in.

Clarke stands when Lexa stands, and the gathering pushes in closer to the fire. Lexa feels a current coursing through the people, familiar but mysterious, turning eyes toward the light, setting skin on edge. Something is coming. Clarke can feel it too, can feel her heart pounding, pushing blood in a deep rhythm through every part of her.

There is silence, save the crackling of logs in the fire, a silence so thick that no one dares to move for fear of disturbing it. Clarke turns her head slowly to look at Lexa whose eyes are closed and whose lips seem to be moving, as if in prayer. Then she sees Nyko the healer step into the circle close to the fire holding a large sack. No one looks at him, not even Miller, their eyes set on the flames, as if hypnotized. No, not hypnotized—there is no vacancy in those eyes—but focused warmth, joy, anticipation.

Clarke doesn’t understand. She looks from Lexa, whose eyes remain closed, to Nyko, who reaches into the sack. He pulls out a handful of...something...and then throws it on the fire. Then he takes a few steps and throws another handful in. The stuff hisses and sends thin smoke into the current that runs through the gathering.

When Clarke takes a breath, she understands. The first scent runs through her, clean and sharp like bathing in a cold stream after a hard fight. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath in. She remembers what it was like to see Earth from the Ark. The light in the darkness. The endless black beyond. How small she felt. And yet so powerful. She can will change to happen. Her hope is a force, creative—and destructive.

The second scent rolls through her, soft like warm sun on bare skin. She remembers the glowing butterflies that first night on Earth, how dense and safe the trees felt, before… She remembers how her mother held her after Finn. _Finn_. She remembers the vastness in Lexa’s eyes right before she leaned in to… _Stay there,_ Clarke tells herself, _don’t move. Stay with the safety, the vastness. It’s still there._

Clarke feels fingers slowly lace between hers. They are warm from the fire, though calloused. Clarke closes her fingers around Lexa’s hand, feeling the current move through them and into the crowd and back through them again—a steady pulse, safe and vast.

Lexa takes a deep breath, inhaling all that is moving through the air. She smiles and leans in close to Clarke’s ear. “Happy New Year,” she whispers.

\---

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys, I love concrit. (No really, I do.) If you ever want to concrit[*] my work please don’t hold back in the comments. Or feel free to email me at tsthrace at gmail. (You can email me about anything, actually.) I'm always trying to grow in my writing, so I'd be grateful if you me know if anything didn't quite work for you.
> 
> * Concrit = Constructive criticism


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